You said to me once, that my life wasn't that hard, that nothing about it should cause me to be how I am. I've been thinking. You see the outside, the crystal clear exterior of my life. But what about the things that I carry, that I feel, that I beat myself up about, what about all the things you didn't look long enough to see. They drown a person, they weigh them down, right to the bottom. You don't see them. The little bullet holes in my soul. My life isn't that bad, but my interior is. Its battered and bruised and tired. Most of all, tired. I don't see the path, I think I wandered off. I'm just walking, aimlessly. I keep bumping into thorns, I keep bleeding everywhere, I keep inflicting pain with acts I don't even see. I'm the most selfish person in the world, because selfishness is wanted the easy way out. You know, I think people would forgive me, if I chose to open the door, to walk right into the darkness. I don't fear not being alive, I don't have any reason to stay. I have nothing that speaks to my soul. I'm waiting for that person, that friend, that boyfriend ? that'll make me feel. But I won't hold my breath. Or on second thought, maybe I will.
Confession Eleven:
I just lay on the grass for twenty minutes writing verbal suicide notes. I think I'm going crazy.
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